


The Drawbacks of Nostalgia

by D_melanogaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_melanogaster/pseuds/D_melanogaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ultimately, this is what has driven Sherlock out of the flat tonight. It isn’t bad enough that he feels like his brain might burn out, it’s not enough that even Lestrade’s cases can’t cheer him up, and his deductions draw dubious glances from strangers and silence from John, no. The two years he was away, he constantly wished he could come home, to London, to Baker Street, to the people and places he knows. Now he has returned, only to see for himself that home has become strangely unfamiliar and he has to reacquaint himself with everyone and everything, and it makes him wonder if it would have been kinder to stay away. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drawbacks of Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes still doesn't belong to me.

 

When Sherlock Holmes first came back from the dead, the initial atmosphere was one of astonishment and celebration. Of course, to Sherlock himself it was different. He didn’t refer to it as coming back from the dead, for one – still doesn’t, and if he has to speak of it, he calls it coming back from his travels, but he prefers not to talk about it at all.

 

He’s obviously glad to be back; even if he hadn’t said so, which he has, it would have been obvious from the way he’s behaved. For a while, he was more appreciative of his friends, kinder and more patient. For a while, so were his friends. Who wouldn’t be nicer, more patient and all around more thankful to have you around than someone who had thought you were dead, or someone who had been very much alone and friendless for two years?

 

However, the novelty has worn off quickly, as it tends to do. It isn’t easy to go back to constant social interaction after months and months of only fleeting human contact, and Sherlock Holmes wasn’t an easy man to deal with even before he fell out of practice. Is it any wonder, then, that he now feels out of place and irritable, and manages to get on everyone’s nerves?

 

He has been home for three weeks, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. There is The Work, of course; he’s more popular than ever, thanks to his faithful friends who cleaned up his reputation while he was away, and the sensation that was his return. It has become tedious to weed out the interesting cases, for the great majority of the people who contact him now only want to see the man who played such a clever trick on everyone. They just want to know if he is actually the amazing, extraordinary consulting detective he portrays himself as, or if he’s just the implausible, fanciful fraud they read about in the papers.

 

At least good, old, reliable Lestrade has gifted him with proper cases, yet working with the New Scotland Yard hasn’t been the same, either. Perhaps it is because Lestrade has obviously been more or less stewing in his guilt while Sherlock’s been away, but the man seems to be trying relentlessly to make something up to him.

 

Sherlock supposes that it has something to do with the disgraceful arrest the night before his plunge from the roof of St. Bart’s, but up until now, he has been under the impression that Lestrade did him a favour. He can be oblivious to people’s feelings every now and then, but it was plainly obvious that night how wildly uncomfortable Lestrade was with what he had to do, so Sherlock has never for one moment believed that the D.I. had enjoyed it. And had it been someone else in charge of the arrest, someone from the vast sea of officers that disliked Sherlock and had never bothered to hide it, well, it could have been much worse for him.

 

So what is he supposed to make of this guilt now? Has he been wrong all this time in having faith in Lestrade, or is this some trick of sentiment? He would ask the D.I., but he hasn’t yet dared. He could have been wrong, and regardless of what he wants people to think, he does actually care. Somewhat.

 

And never mind Lestrade, it’s really his colleagues who make crime scenes absolutely unbearable now. Sherlock is used to being ignored by them, or getting a few snide remarks and doubtful questions, and he would choose that over the current treatment in a heartbeat. They used to call him the Freak, but now he feels like one, like an animal on display at the zoo; they gawk and point and whisper and only Lestrade actually speaks directly to him.

 

Even Donovan and Anderson have given up squabbling with him, and usually turn their heads away from him before he has the chance to say how Anderson’s face is interfering with his thinking. He knows the two of them feel guilty and embarrassed – well, he’s always told them that they’re idiots, apparently now it has sunken in and they’re ashamed it took so long – but what is the matter with the rest of them? Are they distrustful, or only curious? Is it the “coming back from the dead” that has thrown them off so? Has the gossip been so bad? What do they actually know? Sherlock has trouble finding the right motives for their strange behaviour, and it makes him uneasy, perhaps even more so than their actual behaviour does. John and Lestrade tell him it will blow over. He has his doubts, but he’s looking forward to it, all the same.

 

And John – well, if Sherlock is out of practice when it comes to social interaction, John is slightly out of practice when it comes to Sherlock. It doesn’t help that Sherlock has changed quite a bit while he’s been away and not necessarily for the better. It’s not just the fact that he has to get used to being around people again; it’s also that the two years away have not been easy.

 

Sherlock likes a challenge, nothing gives him a rush quite like a good case, but two years of working constantly, so many cases, one right after the other? It was a good distraction, at first. He got to use his brain, really, fully use it, constantly, as he relied on his wits to keep out of sight, unrecognisable, and simultaneously brought down another mastermind’s empire, but even he grew tired eventually. He had to be on guard at all times, looking over his shoulder and thinking ahead at least three steps to make sure he didn’t miss anything. _For two years._ He almost feels burnt out.

 

He recognises that he is somewhat paranoid now. He has never found it easy to trust people, but he’s more doubtful, and although his deductions help immensely with reading people, he is still left suspicious. Perhaps the most troubling, however, is his reflex to defend himself physically when someone takes him by surprise – he has come to realise that it is not a good idea anymore to go to his mind palace while he is sitting on the couch of the living room. In his room, behind a locked door, is better.

 

John has a girlfriend now – he’s had girlfriends before, of course, but it seems this one is here to stay, at least for the time being. Sherlock doesn’t mind the idea of it; he’s used to John’s female companions. Unfortunately, he can’t bring himself to trust her – or rather, it’s unfortunate that he can’t even manage to fool John into thinking that he doesn’t _mistrust_ her. It is one of their chafing points, even though John keeps telling him that he understands.

 

That’s another thing that chafes at their relationship. John keeps treating him as though he’s somehow irreparably damaged and about to break down completely at any moment. Sherlock finds this quite, well, _unfair,_ to be honest. When Sherlock first met John, recently returned from Afghanistan with a psychosomatic limp and no idea what to do with himself, did he tiptoe around the man and tell him to “take his time”, that he “understood”? No. Sherlock had treated him as he would have any other man, because he could see that John didn’t need to be coddled, he needed to find his footing in what would be his normal life.

 

John could be kind enough to extend the same courtesy to him. How did he expect Sherlock to suddenly go back to the way he was before he left, when no one else was the same and nothing was as it used to be? Sherlock is not naïve enough to have expected that everything would be the same, and that the people he left behind wouldn’t move on in his absence, but that’s what John seems to expect from him, without any intention of reciprocating. Or rather that’s what the good doctor seems to have hoped to get, but apparently Sherlock has already managed to shatter that hope.

 

And it’s such a shame, too. John’s attitude has always been one of the main reasons that Sherlock likes him. John has always accepted Sherlock, faults and all, and at the heart of it, it has always been genuine _acceptance_ rather than mere tolerance. And, as his last blog post states, he has always believed in Sherlock – he may complain about Sherlock’s methods occasionally, but underneath it he has absolute, unwavering faith in the consulting detective.

 

Yet the attribute that Sherlock appreciates more than ever now, is that no matter how much John knew and accepted Sherlock himself, he didn’t put up with Sherlock’s harshest tricks and submit to his verbal abuse. He used to tell Sherlock where the line was, and when Sherlock had crossed it. People usually just gave up on him. He used to think that John wouldn’t, but what else could this be? All this meek _understanding_ and getting out of his way and the politeness?

 

John doesn’t treat him like a friend anymore. John treats him like a stranger. And perhaps that’s fair enough – after all, for over half of the time that Sherlock has considered them friends, John has considered Sherlock dead.

 

Ultimately, this is what has driven Sherlock out of the flat tonight. It isn’t bad enough that he feels like his brain might burn out, it’s not enough that even Lestrade’s cases can’t cheer him up, and his deductions draw dubious glances from strangers and silence from John, no. The two years he was away, he constantly wished he could come home, to London, to Baker Street, to the people and places he knows. Now he has returned, only to see for himself that home has become strangely unfamiliar and he has to reacquaint himself with everyone and everything, and it makes him wonder if it would have been kinder to stay away.

 

Kinder to him, to let him keep the image he had of the people he knew, and kinder to everyone else, to let them keep the image they had of him. It seems to be preferable to the reality; Sherlock is aware that he has truly become hellish to live with, as Mycroft once so charmingly put it.

 

And speaking of Mycroft – he has noticed the CCTV cameras turning to follow him, and he wonders if it’s only for the sake of his brother, or if John has asked after him. John does that these days, as apparently he remains unconvinced that Sherlock can look after himself. After the argument they had today, Sherlock thinks John could well have alerted Mycroft.

 

As far as arguments go, it was a petty squabble, really. It isn’t important what they fought about – it was about _dishes_ , of all inane things – the remarkable thing is that something almost tangible snapped, and Sherlock feels as if it could have been him. It was him, or it was something of his friendship with John, but he suddenly felt very unsettled in his flat either way, and he left quite abruptly.

 

And by “quite abruptly”, he means he was saying something when he happened to glance at John’s face, saw the strange expression on it and _snap –_ and off he went, without finishing the sentence. That is probably for the better, as he would have unleashed all of _this,_ these feelings of uncertainty, all of it would have been piled on John, and it is better not to speak of such things. It is quite impossible to actually read minds, so he can think it all he wants, it’s safe inside his head, but if he opens his mouth, well, that would be a mistake.

 

Caring is not an advantage in the first place, and letting others know of it is perilous. He should know.

 

He finds himself in Hyde Park, away from the bustling of people – less stimuli for his already overactive mind – and he loses track of time quite thoroughly as he sits there, grappling for control of his own thoughts. It has become surprisingly difficult to keep in charge since he got back – he can admit to himself that he feels somewhat overwhelmed. It’s another thing he will never say out loud.

 

He has everything back in order inside his head and has been able to breathe freely for a while when he is found. It’s Mycroft that has come to fetch him, and that is both unexpected and predictable. Mycroft does not like footwork; that Sherlock has managed to get him to take a stroll in the park at this hour is a remarkable achievement. But then, that is what’s predictable about it, for if something would get Mycroft moving, it is Sherlock. Mycroft is worried about him, so John must have been in touch.

 

Well, Mycroft has always been worried, but he doesn’t like to show his concern. Tonight is special, then.

 

“Good evening.” Mycroft’s voice is measured and calm as he takes a seat next to Sherlock on the bench. Sherlock recognises it as the voice Mycroft used to use when Sherlock was using; the one that implies he comes in peace and does not wish to agitate him. Inference: Mycroft is extremely concerned.

 

“Am I to take it that John has spent the evening going through my belongings again?” asks Sherlock in response, and Mycroft sighs almost imperceptibly. Sherlock takes that as a yes. “I am clean.”

 

He is, and he has been – this, he feels, is one of his greatest achievements in all of this. He steered clear of drugs while he was away – he was out of control enough as it were – and much for the same reason, he will not seek their comfort now. Mycroft would do well to appreciate that.

 

“I know.” Mycroft may as well have added the implied _for now,_ as it is as loud as his words. He holds something out to Sherlock – it’s a phone; Sherlock’s phone, actually, and this could explain some of the concern. As a rule, he doesn’t leave the flat without it. Until now, Sherlock hasn’t even realised that it was missing.

 

He pockets it without a word, and they sit in silence for a moment. Eventually, Sherlock breaks it.

 

“Have you thought that perhaps I shouldn’t have come back?” It would be pointless to ask if Mycroft _thinks_ so – if he did, he would have told Sherlock. And this phrasing is rather ridiculous, as well; Mycroft will have thought of it, because Mycroft thinks of everything. What Sherlock really wants to know is if his brother has honestly considered the idea properly.

 

This isn’t a question that Sherlock would normally voice – it implies much too much insecurity – but like Mycroft’s presence has already stated, tonight is special. When Mycroft gets like this, Sherlock can speak a bit more freely.

 

“No, Sherlock, not _shouldn’t have_ – rather more _what if_ you hadn’t returned,” replies Mycroft, and Sherlock knows he means to say that there is no reason he should have stayed away. “Have you?”

 

Again, he knows that Mycroft doesn’t mean to literally ask if Sherlock has thought so; he wants to know _why_ Sherlock has. If the thought had never crossed his mind, they would not be talking about this now.

 

“It has been… surprisingly difficult,” Sherlock admits reluctantly, and his brother nods.

 

“You weren’t expecting it to be easy.” Mycroft’s words are a statement, with no hint of a question in them; Sherlock isn’t as certain. What had he expected? To be completely honest, he never thought this far. He was always more concerned about the initial reactions when he thought of his return. In hindsight, it was stupid of him; of course adjusting was going to be the hardest part.

 

He doesn’t tell Mycroft this; he lets his brother draw his own conclusions from the silence.

 

“John thinks you had a panic attack tonight,” Mycroft says when it becomes perfectly clear that Sherlock will not continue the previous line of conversation. He says _John thinks_ , but if he didn’t agree, he would not be here. He may have sent a car, or perhaps John.

 

“Because he told me to wash the dishes?” scoffs Sherlock, shaking his head. It is a ridiculous idea, yet it could have a point. He did feel out of control and short of breath, but if that was a panic attack, it was a very mild one. For anyone else, it would be hardly worth mentioning, but he’s Sherlock Holmes. He has never felt panicked in his life, and yes, this is definitely something that would alarm his brother.

 

“I hardly believe the request that you clear away the biological waste from your experiments was the trigger.” Mycroft pauses for a moment in a rare moment of hesitation. “He believes he shouldn’t have raised his voice. I believe he shouldn’t have apologised for it.”

 

Mycroft is correct, as usual, and John has missed the obvious. Sherlock doesn’t need to confirm this.

 

“They have all made me into something I never was. It’s… tiresome,” he says instead, and it’s another reluctant admission, another way of asking for advice for which he would usually never ask. However, seeing how Mycroft is uncharacteristically tolerable tonight, and probably the only one who knows how he operates well enough to give him useful guidance on how to handle the current situation, well, it really makes sense to take advantage of it.

 

“You think they would have preferred you that way,” says Mycroft, and he sounds relieved. He didn’t truly understand Sherlock’s problem before now, then. “This is why you think you should have stayed away.”

 

Again, Sherlock doesn’t need to say that it is so; Mycroft is just thinking aloud.

 

“John is not treating you differently because he has forgotten who you are,” Mycroft continues after a short moment. “He sees you are stressed, but he thinks it is because something happened to you while you were away. He believes that it will be helpful not to agitate you further; he doesn’t see that he is making it worse. He is trying to be kind.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, because what does that mean if not that John has forgotten who he is? When has he ever wanted or needed to be treated like he was somehow _fragile_?

 

“You have to remember, Sherlock, that for a long time, everyone believed that you took your own life.” Here, Mycroft’s voice grows heavy, a reminder that he is included in that everyone; Sherlock hadn’t revealed the truth even to him until months later. “And for a long time, John had no rational explanation for it. Do you think he never thought about what would drive you to such a thing? That he would find no fault in himself? I do not believe that the last interactions between you were easy on his conscience.”

 

Of course Sherlock knows what he means – the few less than flattering comments John had spat at him that last day. He hasn’t forgotten how his friend accused him of being a machine, or called him an annoying dick, but he has not fixated on those things, either.

 

“He knows now that you did not commit suicide, and he has known for a while that he didn’t drive you into it, but do you think he would risk such comments again so lightly?” Mycroft ends his little lecture, and they grow silent again.

 

“And Lestrade?” Sherlock finally asks, because if he has shown this much weakness, what is one more question on top of that? After all, in addition to being annoyingly proficient at reading Sherlock’s emotions, Mycroft has also always been more in touch with “normal” people than Sherlock ever has.

 

“Much the same, I believe. No matter how involuntary his involvement in your arrest was, he has not really forgiven himself for taking part in it. Rationally, he knows he was the best person to do it, but I rather think that in his mind, it never should have been done at all. And only hours after that, you were dead.” So Sherlock has been correct all along, and it truly is sentiment that has been ailing Lestrade. It’s a relief to hear.

 

This time, the silence stretches out longer than it has before. The person who would have placed the most blame on himself has not been mentioned, but as Mycroft has always known how to read Sherlock, Sherlock has always been able to understand Mycroft, and he can tell that this needs to be addressed before this forthright conversation ends and they leave the park. They have not yet discussed this, after all, and Sherlock knows they will not speak of it again.

 

“I should hope you always knew that what I did was no fault of yours,” he says, once he has found the right words, and Mycroft sighs. Again, it speaks louder than words. “We had an agreement. You gave me access to Baskerville for twenty-four hours, and I gave you permission to speak with Moriarty about me. We both knew he would use the information. We knew what it might entail, and we both know I have never cared about what the general public thinks of me.”

 

“I did not, for one moment, think that the consequences could be so drastic,” Mycroft admits, and Sherlock knows he means drastic for them; the hope always was that they could eliminate the threat from Moriarty, but Mycroft had remained steadfast in his belief that it would not be at the cost of Sherlock’s life. Mycroft thinks of everything, but as they both well know, sentiment is poison for rational thinking. When it comes to Sherlock, he has never been able to remain entirely objective.

 

“All lives end,” Sherlock reminds him, not unkindly. They both remember that Christmas, that conversation in the mortuary; _all lives end, all hearts are broken_. Neither of them will ever say it aloud, but they both know the end of Sherlock’s life will – did – break Mycroft’s heart. “The end of mine will not come by your hand.”

 

It’s both a statement of trust and an absolution at once; Sherlock is confident that Mycroft will not harm him, either by mistake or on purpose, and acknowledging that should something happen, his brother is not to be blamed for it.

 

Mycroft gives no verbal response, but places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, instead.

 

“I think it’s time to go home,” Sherlock says after a while, and Mycroft nods, standing up.

 

“Yes, we can’t leave your blogger worrying for too long,” he agrees, and they exchange a rare smile. They don’t speak on the way to the car, or during the ride to Baker Street, and even then, they only wish each other a good night. Enough has already been said. 

 

Sherlock finds John waiting for him in the living room, and the good doctor has clearly been anxious, as evidenced by the fact that he is sitting by his phone, still fully clothed despite the fact that it is past midnight. John doesn’t seem to quite know what to say, so Sherlock cuts to the point.

 

“You think you should be nice to me because you believe it will make it easier for me to adjust. I much prefer your actual personality. It’s the reason we ever became friends in the first place.” This leaves his flatmate gaping like a fish, and he swiftly continues, giving John no time to interrupt. “You have placed entirely too much emphasis on a few angry comments; as usual, you have missed what is actually important. I have not often looked back to how you called me a machine, but I vividly recall that you punched the Chief Superintendent of New Scotland Yard on my behalf, took my hand and ran when I asked for it, and would not believe that I was a fake even when I explicitly told you so. If you must think back to it, concentrate on the essential aspects.”

 

John still seems too shocked to speak.

 

“I hope you have retained enough wits to remember this conversation. I have no wish to repeat myself.”

 

Finally, this gets a reaction; John starts laughing like Sherlock hasn’t heard him laugh in years, and it is a great relief to the consulting detective. He’s not entirely certain which part of his words was so amusing, but overall, it is one of the best reactions he could have got, and much preferable to tears.

 

John gets up, gives him a pat – or rather a thump – on the back, and asks if he would like a cup of tea since he looks like he’s a bit cold. At Sherlock’s yes, he sits back down in his chair and continues, “Well, make me one, too. I could use it after the night I’ve had.”

 

It’s not the most original of comebacks, perhaps, but they might be all right yet.


End file.
